


i need you

by chalamet



Category: Tom à la ferme | Tom at the Farm (2013)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Choking, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Domestic Violence, Fights, M/M, Porn With Plot, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-18
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2019-03-20 18:50:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13723845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chalamet/pseuds/chalamet
Summary: Instead of stealing Francis’ truck and making a getaway, he gives himself up to Francis in the woods.





	i need you

**Author's Note:**

> pro tip: when they speak in italics, they’re speaking in french. the non-italicized words they say are spoken in english.

“ _Tom_!”

Francis’ shouting rang out through the tall trees of the woods, accompanied by his footsteps stomping over dirt ground and twigs as he ran. Tom’s heavy breathing and rapid heartbeat nearly rivalled the volume of Francis’ heavy treading, but the older man was too far to hear.

“ _Tom! Tom!_ ”

Tom had hidden himself behind a wide tree, clutching the shovel in both hands, although he wasn’t sure if he had it in him to use it as a weapon against Francis. He had begun to sweat out of sheer fear, his palms and forehead becoming damp as his heart thumped heavily in his chest. Francis called out his name again, and he gripped the shovel tighter, his knuckles turning white.

“ _Where are you, Tom?_ ” a small splash sounded after Francis spoke, and Tom could tell that he was close by. If he were to peak his head up between the trunks of the trees, Francis would catch sight of his blond hair. “ _Where are you?_ ” his voice came again, and Tom shuffled around in his spot, scraping the dirt ground. He was terrified of what Francis could do, of what Francis was capable of. What would happen if Francis got to him?

“ _I’m sorry, Tom! I’m sorry,_ ok?”

Sorry. The tip of the shovel dug into the ground, pushing up dirt. He was sorry. Tom’s face scrunched up, a loud sob begging to escape his throat. No, he wasn’t sorry, he was just saying he was. As hard as he tried to hold them back, tears spilled from his eyes and began to trail down his cheeks as he silently cried. He squeezed the wooden shaft of the shovel with all his might, as if it were keeping him grounded. He wanted to believe that Francis was sorry, but a part of him wondered if Francis had ever been sorry for anything.

“ _Don’t go!_ ” Francis sounded more angry than desperate, but despite that, all Tom could think of was when he was sitting in Agathe’s living room and Francis was ironing clothes and had said those exact same words, although they were softer the first time. Tom flipped the shovel around in his hand, holding it as if he was ready to use it, even though he really wasn’t. “ _I won’t hurt you, Tom,_ ok?”

There it was. Tom knew Francis lied, he knew the man was violent and aggressive and ruthless, but a fleeting part of him believed those words. Tom meant something to Francis, he had to. Would he really hurt him, knowing that he could’ve completely lost him? Tom mulled over that question in his head as he quietly sobbed. He thought he had been finished with every redeeming thought he had of Francis when he left the house in the morning, but everything came rushing back at the sound of Francis’ voice. Still, the chilling image of Francis ripping apart a boy’s mouth made him feel sick. It only went to show what Francis had in him, what he could’ve done to Tom. The real thing.

“ _What about me, man?_ ” his voice was louder and more aggressive than ever before, and his words were punctuated with a hard kick at the stream he was in. His anger scared Tom, but it wasn’t enough to convince him that he’d definitely be beaten if he showed himself. It wasn’t evident to Tom, but he was already getting sucked back into Francis’ game. In fact, he never really did leave—he had just taken a seat on the sidelines. “ _Tom, don’t you fucking do this to me!_ ” Francis’ breathing was nearly as heavy as Tom’s. It might’ve been because he was out of breath from running and kicking, or because he was breaking down. Tom certainly thought it was a mixture of both. He was begging and pleading for Tom to return, and as much as Tom thought he had wanted to leave, he found that he had been wrong. He didn’t want to leave, he just wanted to want to leave. In actuality, Francis’ voice—that same voice of Guillaume, that same voice he’d die to hear again—was pulling him back.

“ _I need you,_ ok? _I fucking need you here!_ ” there was the desperation breaking through, the desperation that made Tom want to crawl out and beg for forgiveness. Francis needed Tom, and yes, Tom needed him. Tom needed to care for the farm with him, he needed to sleep with his bed pushed against Francis’, he needed to smell him, needed to feel his fingers around his neck. Salty tears continued to sting his eyes and paint wet streaks down his cheeks as he shivered—not because he was cold, but because he was still afraid. His breathing was quick and erratic, and he wondered if he’d ever be able to calm himself down, even when it was all over.

“ _I’m really disappointed, Tom! I’d never do it to you! Never!_ ” as Francis continued to speak, Tom’s belief in his words strengthened. He moved slightly in his spot, turning his head as if he’d be able to see Francis through the trunk of the tree. “ _I’m trying to be a better person,_ ok?”

The bartender said it happened nine years ago. He wasn’t the same person as he was nine years ago, was he? He had changed. Just because he did something nearly a decade ago, didn’t mean he’d do it again, did it? _No_ , Tom thought. He was becoming a better person, like he said. Tom believed—no, Tom knew—that he could help Francis become gentler.

“Fuck, _Tom!_ ” loud splashes echoed through the trees as Francis kicked at the water, then stomped through it. He cursed as he picked up a rotting log and lugged it away. Tom was still nervous, still petrified, but he couldn’t let Francis go on any longer. He dug his heels into the dirt, ready to stand. “ _Wait until I find you,_ ” Francis said, the beginning of a threat, but he never got to finish the sentence.

Tom dropped his shovel and scrambled to get up, his fingers digging into the bark of the tree as he pulled himself off the ground. Francis was all he had known for weeks. He couldn’t do anything but give himself up. He stepped out from behind the tree and immediately made eye contact with Francis, who had heard the shovel hit the ground and turned to watch Tom emerge.

They both stood still for a few moments, in which Tom’s mind raced. _He won’t hurt me, he said so. He’s sorry. He needs me. He needs me._ The stillness ended with Francis stepping forward, moving towards Tom in a quick walking pace. “ _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Francis, I’m sorry._ ” the apologies spilled from Tom’s lips like water overflowing out of a bathtub, but Francis seemed deaf to the words, his movements not faltering. Tom could’ve ran, maneuvered through the trees like he did that day in the cornfield, but it would only end in the same way. Instead, he stood still—not strongly nor toughly, just still. Francis’ face was hard, but not emotionless—his eyes were filled with it, although the rest of his features were stone cold. It was to be expected when his strong fist met Tom’s cheek in a firm punch. The solid sound of skin striking against skin sounded, and Tom staggered backwards, falling onto the ground. Pain shot through his face, sharp and stinging, like it always was. Francis lied about hurting Tom, but Tom knew he deserved it. He deserved what was coming to him, because it was his own fault.

As soon as Tom hit the ground, Francis kicked him at the side of his stomach with the toe of his boot, inducing a loud groan from Tom. A second later, Francis was on top of him, punching Tom a second time in the other cheek. Another burst of sudden pain, blossoming like a flower. Tom made him do this. Powerful hands found their way to Tom’s neck, wrapping around it and squeezing, all too quickly for Tom to interfere. “ _Look at what you’re_ fucking _doing to me!_ ” Francis growled, his raging voice full of anger and agony. Tom yearned to see Francis’ face but his vision was blurred with a film of tears. He sputtered and choked, his own hands instinctively coming up to try and pry Francis’ hands away, but he was too weak. Francis shook his arms violently, pulling Tom’s head off the ground and pushing it back down again. The ground was hard and it hurt every time his head slammed against it.

Just when Tom thought he was going to pass out, Francis loosened his grip, sliding his hands up Tom’s neck, over his jaws, and up his cheeks. “ _I need you._ ” he repeated firmly, feeling Tom’s face with both hands as Tom gasped for air. “ _I need you,_ ” his fingertips brushed against Tom’s ears, “ _I know you need me, too._ ” Francis turned Tom’s head to one side, then to the other, admiring the old yellow bruises he’d put on his neck and face days and days ago. There would be new ones soon, and Francis would look at him in the barn or at the kitchen table and know that he put those marks there. Tom let Francis move his head around, even though it hurt him. After Francis turned Tom’s head back, he grabbed onto Tom’s chin and pulled his mouth open, then spit inside. Tom was his, and they both knew it. The blonde boy closed his mouth when Francis let him and swallowed.

Francis stared at him for several seconds, his eyes searching Tom’s for something unspoken, and whether Francis found it or not was a mystery. His demeanour had changed from furious to quite normal in seconds, as it usually did. He pushed himself off of Tom and stood up, waiting for Tom to do the same. Tom’s side ached as he got up, and he wondered if he’d have to go to see a doctor again—not the same one, of course. It would only raise suspicion. “Fuck.” he muttered as he stood, and Francis wrapped an arm around him to help him get back to the truck. Tom flinched, but let Francis help him.

They had walked in silence for a few long moments before Francis suddenly wrapped his hand around Tom’s bicep and squeezed hard enough to leave bruises. Tom let out a sharp cry, taken aback by Francis’ quick movements, and the two of them stilled. “ _Don’t ever do that again. Ever._ ” Francis turned his head to face Tom as his spoke, his voice firm and unwavering. Tom only stared back, wincing faintly as Francis’ fingers continued to dig into his skin. “ _Do you_ fucking _understand me? You know what I’ll do if you leave. You know what’ll happen. I should be beating you black and blue right now._ ”

Tom couldn’t tell if Francis’ eyes were frigid and distant or full of pain, but he hoped it was the latter. As evident by his words, he had gone easy on Tom—sure, he had roughed him up, but he could’ve done worse. Could’ve torn his mouth apart, just like going back to Montréal would’ve torn Francis’ life apart. He deserved every punch, every kick, every strangling he got. Francis wouldn’t have hurt him if he hadn’t done anything wrong.

“ _I’m sorry._ ” he whispered, and with that, Francis released Tom’s arm from his grip and wrapped his own arm around Tom’s back again. He continued to walk to the truck, and Tom went along with him, his side aching where Francis kicked him. It would hurt for days, reminding him that he was stupid for trying to leave, that he belonged on the farm and wouldn’t run away again. The truck was on, its headlights illuminating the road ahead. The thought that Tom could’ve stolen the truck and made his getaway instead of giving himself up to Francis never even crossed his mind. Francis helped him into the passenger side seat, and Tom found that it hurt his ass to sit—probably from when he stumbled to the ground. Francis got into the drivers seat and turned the car around, beginning to drive back home.

Tom stared out the window, watching the low fields pass by, dark in the night. He brought his hand up to his face and chewed on his thumbnail. He’d have to make something up to Agathe, say that he had some sort of breakdown, that he couldn’t bare to stay there anymore—but once he left, he realized that he needed to stay more than he needed anything else. She’d buy it, and Francis would be satisfied. It’d all be okay by morning.

“ _Would you have went after me?_ ” Tom asked on a whim, turning his head to look at Francis, whose face didn’t falter at the question. “ _I did._ ” he answered, and Tom looked out at the road ahead through the windshield. “ _I meant, if I got away. If I went back to Montréal._ ” he began to bite his thumbnail again, waiting through the few seconds of silence that followed. He thought Francis might’ve just not answered, but he did. “ _I would’ve found you and dragged you back._ ”

Tom looked down at his jeans, the tiniest of smiles pulling at his lips. It was the answer he wanted, the answer that reassured him. Francis cared about him. “ _You need me._ ” Tom breathed out, tilting his head up slightly to catch sight of Francis out of the corner of his eye. Francis had turned his head too, and he was already looking at Tom. Their eyes met for a second before Francis brought his focus back onto the road ahead.

“ _What I need is a fucking smoke._ ”

***

Agathe had been upset that Tom had just gotten up and left. He could tell—her eyes, tired and red, said it all. He had hugged her and apologized the moment they got back to the house. She didn’t ask about what happened to his face, but Tom knew she had to have noticed. She had already made dinner for three, even though she had no idea if Tom would’ve been returning or not.

They were sitting at the table, tension in the air. Tom looked at Agathe and knew that she wanted answers, then he looked at Francis and knew that he wanted Tom to fabricate some for her. His gaze fell back down to his dinner plate, and he watched himself lightly push around his food with his fork.

“ _It was like I was suffocating._ ” he said, and he knew that all eyes had fallen on him, but he didn’t dare to look up at either Agathe or Francis. “ _Everything here reminds me of him and it was hurting me. I couldn’t take it, I felt as if I had to go, but I couldn’t face saying goodbye. I just broke down._ ” Each sentence he spoke ended in a long pause. He shook his head slightly, as if he couldn’t believe the state he was in when he left. “ _I realize now that I need to be here. Being here isn’t hurting me. It’s good for me. I love it._ ” Only then did he bring his gaze to Francis. It was clear to the both of them that he wasn’t really talking about farm. He was talking about Francis. ‘Here’ was Francis, the cows and hay were Francis, the truck and the cocaine in the barn were Francis, even the cologne and clothes—once Guillaume—were Francis.

Francis chewed his food slowly, still staring at Tom. The table was silent for a while before Agathe spoke. “ _It’s_ ok, _Tom. You’re_ alright _now, and that’s all that matters._ ” Tom turned to look at her and provided a small smile in thanks. After a moment, they all continued to eat.

“ _Just please don’t leave like that again._ ” Agathe said, her voice wavering slightly. Tom didn’t need to look up to know that Francis was staring at him, waiting for him to say something comforting. “ _I won’t._ ” he assured her, Francis, and himself in those two words. He reached out across the table to hold her hand in his, and it made her smile.

For a while, they ate in silence. When Agathe began to speak about Sarah, Tom politely excused himself, muttering something about being tired before he headed to his room.

***

Tom had changed into some old, comfy clothes that used to belong to Guillaume and slipped under the blanket on his bed. Francis’ bed was pushed up right beside it, and Tom liked it that way. He could smell the sheets from his bed, and they smelled like Francis.

He dozed off quickly, being rather tired from walking the streets for so long. While he was asleep, he dreamed of running through the corn field. The same razor sharp October corn scraped his hands and cheeks. He stumbled into the same clearing and was tackled the same way after looking around for the man who was chasing him. Except this time, it wasn’t Francis. It was Guillaume choking him, wrenching his jaw open and spitting in his mouth, growling harsh words at him.

He awoke with a start, his breathing as heavy as it was hours before in the woods. The events of the dream were fresh and clear in his mind. It was bittersweet—seeing Guillaume again, even in a dream, brought tears of happiness to Tom’s eyes, but seeing him as aggressive as he was evoked tears of sadness. Guillaume was always evident in the softer sides of Francis, but to see him in the harsh sides was hell.

For a moment, Tom thought he’d be okay—he had slowed his breathing and gotten himself under control—but his mind was racing. Guillaume was everywhere in that house, but things that reminded him of Guillaume were slowly starting to remind him of Francis instead. Guillaume’s scent had begun to belong to Francis, along with his voice, his clothes, his eyes, his smile. Even Tom himself, who once belonged to Guillaume, was Francis’. That very thought along with so many others—Guillaume fucking Sarah and countless other people, Francis ripping apart a poor boy’s face, the thoughts that were going through his head when he frantically left the house with nothing but a shovel and a few of Guillaume’s belongings—ripped sobs from his throat and pulled tears from his eyes.

He rolled over and pressed his face into his pillow, muffling his loud crying. The fabric soaked up his tears and made it hard to breath, but he didn’t care. All he could think about was every awful thing that had happened since Guillaume died, and it was more painful than any hard punch or kick that Francis could’ve dished out. He didn’t even know that Guillaume had a brother before Agathe told him, and in such a small amount of time he had grown so attached to Francis. He was silly for trying to go back to Montréal—Francis depended on him, and he depended on Francis. God, why did he try to leave?

The sobs wracked his body, making him shake. For a split second, he was overcome with fear as he felt the weight of a heavy hand on his shoulder. “ _Tom._ ” Francis whispered as he pulled at Tom’s shoulder, urging him to roll over and face Francis. Tom sniffled and complied, turning his body around. The room was dark, and he could barely make out the outline of Francis’ body under the blankets. He still whimpered quietly, more tears pouring from his eyes than when he was hiding behind the tree in the woods. He was a mess, but Francis’ hand on his shoulder comforted him slightly. “ _Shhhh,_ ” Francis murmured, and it was him who shuffled closer, wrapping his arm around Tom’s back. Strong arms, just like Guillaume. He wondered if he’d ever meet another man with strong arms and think ‘ _just like Francis.’_

Francis’ arm seemed to be pulling Tom in, and Tom shuffled closer, giving himself up to Francis. He was warm, and half of Tom said he smelled like Guillaume while the other half said he just smelled like Francis, even though the scents were one and the same. Francis’ other hand came up to wipe away Tom’s tears, his rough fingertips brushing against Tom’s sore cheeks. The tears falling from his eyes were beginning to diminish, but he still felt as if he were in hysterics. Francis’ warm embrace was helping him calm down. Tom thought of Francis saying ‘ _I’m trying to be a better person,_ ’ and found that the way he was drying Tom’s tears and rubbing small circles into his back only proved it to be true.

Tom sniffled for the last time, and although no tears spilled from his eyes, Francis’ hand was still on his face. His fingers moved gently across Tom’s skin, his thumb brushing over Tom’s lips. Tom’s heart was in his chest, although he suspected Francis was perfectly levelheaded and calm. He always knew exactly what he was doing—it was his game, after all.

Tom parted his lips, and Francis stared at them, watching himself thumb at them. His gaze slowly moved up to Tom’s eyes—his huge, pleading eyes—and it remained there, even as he pulled both their blankets off and threw them aside, even as he slowly crawled over Tom, kneeling with one leg on either side of the blonde boy’s body, straddling him. Their eyes remained locked as Francis leaned over, slow and sultry, and further parted Tom’s lips by pulling his jaw down slightly. It was only when Tom’s mouth was wide open that Francis’ eyes flicked down to his lips and watched as he slowly spit into Tom’s open mouth.

It was nothing Francis hadn’t done before, but it was never as sensual and slow as that. Tom groaned rather involuntarily, and swallowed the spit with his lips still parted. That was what he wanted, what he craved. He was filthy but he didn’t care. Francis had called him a slut when he had confessed own sexual desires for Guillaume to Agathe by retelling them as Sarah’s, and Francis was right. It was wrong, feeling the way he did with the brother of his dead lover, but he couldn’t claw his way out of the situation he was in. Even if he could’ve, he didn’t think he would’ve.

Francis dipped his head down lower by a fraction of an inch, seemingly hesitant. His eyes searched Tom’s and found raw emotion that was reflected in his own eyes, too. What was next? A kiss? Tom hoped for it but he was tentative as well. Francis moved in closer, then pulled back. Neither of them were prepared to make the first move. Tom, however, needed something.

“ _Choke me._ ” he spoke softly, his voice needy. He yearned for Francis’ hands around his neck again, wanted to see the look on his face as he asphyxiated Tom. Francis was in no position to decline such a request, not when he wanted it himself, and he brought his bare hands up to Tom’s tender neck. He pushed and squeezed, coaxing strangled noises out of Tom’s throat. “ _Harder._ ” Tom whispered, much like he did on that one late night when they both got piss drunk and Francis strangled Tom against the metallic barn. He complied, leaning in and pressing harder, cutting off Tom’s airway. Their faces were so close, their noses could’ve bumped. Tom sputtered as he was choked, his lips parted as he struggled to take in air. Francis’ eyes drifted down to those lips, and after a moment he dove in, releasing Tom’s neck from his grip as his lips crushed against those of the desperate boy underneath him.

Francis kissed harder than Guillaume, and the hairs of his beard scratched at the skin around Tom’s mouth. He was rough and dominate, everything Tom already knew he was and expected him to be. Tom took deep breaths through his nose as he worked his lips against Francis’, filling his lungs again. Francis ran his hands over Tom’s jaws and cheeks and hair, always touching, always yearning for contact. Tom was all he had.

Francis carded his hand through Tom’s hair, then grabbed a fistful of it and pulled his head down against the bed. Tom let out a small “ah” as they parted, forced to keep his head on the bed as Francis pulled away. He panted as he looked up at the man before him.

“ _Please. I need... ah!_ ” he was cut off by Francis pulling sharply at his hair again, forcing Tom to tilt his head up and bare his neck. “ _Need you._ ” he whispered, his voice strangled from how outstretched his neck was. Francis’ pupils blew with lust as he stared down at Tom’s bruised neck and soft lips. He let go of Tom’s hair and leaned over to turn on the lamp on the nightstand in one swift move, illuminating them both in soft yellowish light. Then, he moved back and slipped his hands under Tom’s sweater, pulling it up his torso. Tom sat up and helped Francis take it off, their movements frantic, as if they didn’t have all the time in the world. Once his sweater was off and had been discarded somewhere on the floor, Francis tugged at Tom’s sweatpants, pulling them off too. Tom wasn’t wearing any boxers, and his semi-hard cock had begun to drip. Francis inhaled sharply through his nose at the sight.

Tom let his sweatpants be yanked off, then leaned over to take off Francis’ clothes, but Francis’ hand wrapped around his wrist, strong and tight. “ _No._ ” he said firmly, and although he wanted to take in the sight of Francis’ bare body, Tom’s dick bobbed at the thought of lying naked under a fully clothed man like some whore. He let himself fall back on the bed, all laid out for Francis. He wanted Francis to want him, needed Francis to need him. Francis moved in-between Tom’s legs, and Tom grabbed a pillow to slide underneath his ass, propping it up a little. Francis felt up Tom’s thighs, then curved his fingers around Tom’s ass. “ _Mine._ ” he stated, and Tom held back a moan. He belonged to Francis and he wanted to. Francis tugged down his own sweatpants halfway down his thighs, his own cock springing free. “ _God._ ” Tom murmured, bringing a prideful smirk to Francis’ lips. It was just as large and thick as Tom expected it to be—Francis did not disappoint.

Francis shuffled closer, and for a moment, Tom thought that he’d try to go in dry. It was something to expect from someone who had only fucked women. “ _Francis, you have to–_ ”

“ _I know how to take care of a_ bitch _._ ” he said, and Tom’s cock bobbed yet again. It didn’t go without notice from Francis, who smirked a second time as he leaned in and pressed two fingers to Tom’s lips. “ _Suck._ ” he ordered, and Tom did, taking Francis’ fingers into his mouth and making a show out of licking and sucking them. “Fucking _slut._ ” Francis’ voice was low and Tom loved it. When Francis pulled his hand back, a string of saliva connected his fingertip to Tom’s tongue. It stretched until it broke and fell across Tom’s chin and chest.

Tom lifted his legs over Francis’ shoulders, giving him access to his hole. Francis took his time, gently circling it with his finger, gradually pressing harder and harder. Even though there was barely any contact, Tom writhed. The sight of Francis, strapping and handsome and peering down at his ass as he circled his hole with such softness, made him feel weak. Breathy moans escaped his lips, and when Francis pushed the tip of his finger inside, he groaned.

“Fucking _eager, aren’t you?_ ” Francis laughed, pushing his finger in a little then back out, repeating the motion and going deeper each time. It stung a little, but it was nothing Tom couldn’t handle. He made a little humming sound in his throat with each inward thrust. Francis watched his finger disappear into Tom with intent eyes. Once he had pushed one all the way in, he looked up to Tom. “ _There’s this spot, right?_ ” he asked, moving his finger around inside of Tom. It took Tom a second to realize what he was referring to, but a small smile spread across his lips once he did. He thought it was thoughtful of Francis to ask.

“ _Yeah. Turn your palm upwards._ ” Tom explained, showing Francis his own hand as an example. Francis followed Tom’s instructions, his fingertip brushing against sensitive flesh. “ _Now do this._ ” Tom made a ‘come hither’ motion with his finger, and a second later he felt Francis mimic the same motion, accompanied by a burst of pleasure. “Fuck, _yeah. Right there._ ” Tom sighed, and Francis did it again, rubbing it with the pad of his finger. Francis slowly began to push his second finger into Tom’s hole, all while Tom moaned quietly. Through hooded eyes, he could see Francis watching his face.

“ _I’m gonna pound you right into this bed,_ ” Francis growled, sounding entirely erotic as he slowly fucked Tom with two fingers, “ _I’m gonna ruin your tight little hole, Tom, fucking ruin it._ ” He punctuated his words by hitting Tom’s prostrate, pulling an unexpected moan out from Tom’s throat. Even though he had never really organically thought about it, a part of him had known that Francis would’ve been quite the dirty talker in bed. He liked it more than he would’ve admitted. At that point, his cock was fully stiff and leaking. Francis’ other hand was groping his ass, and when Francis pulled his fingers out for the final time, he gave Tom’s ass a good slap. “ _You really do have a_ bitch _ass._ ” he quipped, and Tom laughed, even though his calf was the last thing he wanted to be thinking about at a time like that.

Francis spit on his own cock, spreading it around his shaft and tip with his hand. Tom had propped himself up on his elbows to watch, taking in the sight of Francis’ big dick and the way his fingers moved over it. Francis looked over at his face and grinned when he saw Tom watching. “ _This cock is going to make you a_ fucking whore.” he spat on his dick once more as Tom shuddered at his words. He grabbed one of Tom’s thighs in one hand and used the other hand to guide the head of his cock into Tom’s wet hole. He pushed his hips forward and it slipped inside after being met with some resistance. Tom groaned, and so did Francis.

Francis slowly moved his hands to Tom’s hips and thrusted shallowly into Tom. The blonde boy grimaced, spit and fingers proving to be insufficient in preparing Tom for Francis’ dick. He dug his fingers into the bedsheets, gripping them tightly as Francis pushed into him. “Alright?” Francis asked, stilling, rubbing circles into Tom’s hips with the pads of his thumbs. “ _Mmhm,_ ” Tom nodded, “ _keep going._ ”

Francis pulled out, then steadily pushed back in, going in deeper each time. Tom inhaled sharply and exhaled heavily, turning his head to the side and resting it on the bed. The dull burning sensation had him biting his lip and screwing his eyes shut. When Francis looked down at Tom’s face and noticed that he was looking away, he reached out and grabbed Tom’s chin, turning his head back upright. Tom’s eyes flew open, and he stared right up at Francis’ face. “ _Look at me,_ ” Francis growled, “ _look at me fucking you right open._ ” He slowly thrusted into Tom, deeper than ever before. It stung, and Tom was groaning and murmuring quiet curses. Francis just kept pushing until he had bottomed out.

He stayed still for a few moments, letting Tom get used to his thick shaft inside of Tom’s hole. Once Tom’s breathing had regulated, Francis pulled out a little, then pushed back in. Tom felt so full that he ached, twisting his hands in the bedsheets. He didn’t let his gaze drift away from Francis, and Francis seemed intent on studying Tom’s face. After a few more languid thrusts, Tom felt himself begin to relax. “ _You can go a little faster now._ ” he breathed, and Francis nodded, pulling out and thrusting back in a little quicker than before.

Francis leaned in as he began to pump his hips faster, moving his hands from Tom’s hips up to his neck. Tom knew what was coming, and tilted his head upwards, baring his neck for Francis, putting his life in Francis’ hands. Francis only rested his hands on Tom’s neck at first, not squeezing in the slightest, but as his thrusts picked up some pace, he began to push down on Tom’s neck. Francis began to let out quiet groans, his lips parted and a look of pure pleasure on his face. “ _God, you’re tighter than any_ fucking _cunt,_ ” he hissed, dipping his head down lower as his strong hands tightened on Tom’s neck, “ _better than any cunt._ ” The words hit Tom right in his groin, reminding him of his own neglected cock.

Suddenly Francis’ hips snapped forward, driving his cock right into Tom’s prostate, the electrifying pleasure accenting the pain. Tom moaned, his voice high, and Francis cut it off by crushing his hands down harder on Tom’s neck. “ _You love this, don’t you? You need it._ ” his voice was sharp, and his words were true. It didn’t matter whether he was talking about the sex or the choking, because he needed both. Francis continued to thrust at the pace he had before, not too slow yet not too fast. The more Tom got used to his cock, the less it hurt, and the less it hurt, the better it felt. Tom’s face was stuck in a look of bliss, even as he was being choked.

Francis let go of Tom’s neck in favour of gripping his hips as he fucked into him. Tom gasped for air, feeling lightheaded, which only heightened his pleasure. Between deep breaths, he managed to speak. “ _You need it._ ” he heaved, and Francis stilled.

He didn’t know if he had pushed his luck or not. He didn’t know if he was going to be strangled again or punched or slapped or if Francis would admit that he did need it, just as badly as Tom did. Several long seconds passed, then Francis’ hips jacked forward again, even faster than before. He didn’t acknowledge what Tom had said, not with any verbal response. He only tightened his hold on Tom’s hips and drilled into him with his long cock. Francis’ moans were quiet, but Tom’s were rather uninhibited. Tom snaked his hand down towards his own groin, reaching for his rock hard cock, but Francis caught his wrist in a death grip. “ _No. You’re going to cum untouched, like the_ slut _you are._ ” he ordered, and Tom whimpered at the words, sounding ever so desperate. Francis smirked at the very sound.

“ _I- ah! I can’t, Francis._ ” Tom moaned out, writhing underneath the stronger man, his cock throbbing with need. Francis let go of his wrist and moved his hand back to Tom’s hips. “ _You can._ ” he said it as if he knew, as if he was sure. “ _Francis-_ ”

“ _You will._ ”

Francis sped up his thrusts, jackhammering into Tom, turning him into a garbling mess. He was hitting Tom’s prostate on every thrust, causing all of Tom’s moans to blend. When he closed his eyes, he swore he could see stars. All he needed was a hand on his dick, he didn’t care if it was his own or Francis’. He didn’t know if he could come without it.

That’s when Francis leaned in close to the side of Tom’s head, the hairs of his beard tickling Tom’s ear as he spoke. “ _Yeah, Tom, I need this,_ alright? _I need you here, you_ fucking whore. _You belong to me. I’m going to_ fuck _you until I come with my_ cock _buried deep in your ass. You’re mine._ ” He continued thrusting hard and deep, and Tom felt his orgasm exploding within him. His moans reached a peak as he came, Francis’ words being enough to push him over the edge. His cum streaked his stomach and hit Francis’ shirt.

His body convulsed, shaking in a release of all that built-up pleasure, and his eyes nearly rolled back into his head. Francis kept to his fast pace, prolonging Tom’s orgasm and drawing out high-pitched moans from the younger man. Even as Tom’s cock began to soften, Francis kept going at it, a look of both pleasure and determination on his face. Tom began to ache with overstimulation, his sensitive hole overwhelmed, and his whimpers were desperate. Tom knew Francis was close when he sped up further, thrusting impossibly fast. When he pushed in as deep as he possibly could and came, Tom felt relieved. He relished the sound of Francis’ deep groans as if he’d never hear them again.

Once he was completely spent, Francis slowly pulled out of Tom. He pulled his sweatpants back up again, carded a hand through his short hair, and got up to fetch a damp towel to clean Tom off.

“ _I’m not going anywhere without you anymore, alright? I want you with me at all times. No more running away_ bullshit _._ ” Francis stated as he returned from the bathroom, sitting on the side of the bed. He began to wipe of Tom’s stomach, but paused after a few moments, bringing his gaze to Tom’s face as he awaited an answer. “Ok.” Tom said, finding that he didn’t really mind that he was to spend every waking minute with Francis.

He cleaned all the cum off of Tom’s stomach, then leaned over to gather his clothes from the floor. After plopping them on the bed, he retreated to the bathroom to clean off the washcloth, and when he returned, Tom was all dressed in his pyjamas again.

Francis slipped into the bed beside him, pulling the blankets back over himself just as Tom did the same. He lied with his back facing Tom, and although Tom would’ve preferred if they slept facing each other, he didn’t say a word about it. “ _Turn the lamp off, will you?_ ” Francis asked, and Tom reached over to the nightstand and did so. Francis closed his eyes, ready to go to sleep, but Tom kept his open.

Everything was silent for a few minutes before Tom had had enough. “ _Francis?_ ” he whispered, and received a short hum of acknowledgement from the older man a second later. For a moment, he hesitated, but figured that he had to ask. “ _When will I get to kiss you again?_ ”

It took Francis a few seconds to react. He slowly rolled over to face Tom, opening his eyes again. He stared at Tom for a few moments, who just stared back, their eyes brimming with unspoken confessions and words that would never be said. A part of Tom wished that Francis could always be as gentle as he looked in that very moment. Just when Tom thought he’d get no answer, Francis sat up in one quick and swift move, leaned in, and crushed their lips together.

**Author's Note:**

> the tom à la ferme fanbase is like... nonexistent and i love this movie SO much so if you’re a fan too please comment with your honest feedback on this. i’m always looking to improve my writing especially when it comes to accurate portrayals of characters and scenarios so it’d mean a lot! thanks for reading


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